Disease on Wings (and a Side-Order of Fries)
I am not going to talk about football. That would be far too topical. Football is a rather bad example, actually, as I'm not likely to discuss it, topical or otherwise. No, I am going to talk about pigeons.
It all started when the one known as Veins and I decided that we were hungry. Making Ben uncomfortable by attempting to follow him to Hughenden (where he was reported to be meeting a friend of the female persuasion*) is tiring and hunger-inducing work. So, the merry debate as to where to eat began. The final candidates for consideration were Kentucky Fried Fastfoods, or McFastfoods. As the former was closer to where we were at the time, we decided upon it, and made our way over. As we approached the establishment, I paused in my musings on the odds of finding a cyst in my meal** (which I decided were favourable because I was rather hungry) in order to partake in a cursory look into the "restaurant". My companion must have done the same, as we both immediately squealed in horror like the little girls that we are; there was a particularly ratty (and most indubitably heavily diseased) pigeon wandering around the foyer where the food is ordered and collected. Both the staff and the customers (and especially the staff) seemed entirely unconcerned by this event, as if a disgusting and particularly disease-ridden (honorary) rodent that is not only horrible but can also fly turning up in the foyer is a regular, if not daily occurrence and of no particular note. No attempt had been made to shoo it away or indeed do anything about its presence, and the worst thing was that there was nothing stopping it taking flight over the counter and into the nearest vat of fries.
At this point, my imagination broke out of its cage and ran around my mind, tipping over furniture, drawing on the walls and generally terrorising the other occupants. Consequently, I could almost hear someone with a Spanish accent shouting, "Oh no! José, the livestock is escaping! How will we make our delicious burgers now?!" I am imagining a fellow called José, because I am sure that I was once served by a Spanish or Mexican guy in there, and as I do not know his real name, calling him José makes me happy. As for the other Spanish person, what's the point in having someone shouting "José" if it is not done in a Spanish accent?
Anyway, after much loud assessing of the situation, and some gratuitous usage of the phrase "What the fuck," we departed and took our business to McFastfoods, who at least have the decency not to parade the live contents of their burgers by the door.
And now, suddenly, for no apparent reason, I am suffering from some sort of a terrifying Dèja Vú feedback loop. If I don't make it, tell Veins to get his filthy hands off my stereo.
-Thaddeus "B." Glands (The "B." stands for "Good Vibrations"!)
* One cannot be too sure of this, however, as when he offered to show me a photo of her he had in his wallet, he instead showed me a photo of himself.
** I've heard "stories", you see. Listening to these is probably a bad idea, but I refuse to pay any attention to this until someone tells it to me in "story" form.